


You Are A Memory

by The Tinglenator (Misha_McCarthy)



Series: Supernatural One-Shots [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alive Mary Winchester, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Arguing, Caring, Caring Dean Winchester, Caring Sam Winchester, Character Study, Comfort/Angst, Confused Mary Winchester, Difficult Decisions, Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Family Drama, Family Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mary Winchester Lives, One Shot, POV Female Character, POV Mary Winchester, POV Third Person Limited, Parent Mary Winchester, Short One Shot, Worried Dean Winchester, Worried Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25954918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misha_McCarthy/pseuds/The%20Tinglenator
Summary: When Mary is revived, she returns to a world which has changed so drastically that almost everything is foreign. She doesn't know much of anything and her sons are as good as strangers, but she thinks she wants to do right by them- even if she isn't sure how to. One-shot during season 12.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Mary Winchester, Dean Winchester & Mary Winchester & Sam Winchester, Mary Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Supernatural One-Shots [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1877215
Kudos: 23





	You Are A Memory

Mary watched as the light brown and greenish hue of the tea twirled about the cup, again and again. Loop after loop it continued to swirl, its pattern changing a tiny bit each time it came back around. It would only rest once she was finished compelling it to continue the journey. Was she like a cup of tea?

Mary frowned and put the glass on her nightstand table. Of course she wasn't a _beverage_. She had thoughts, and a will. If there's a will, there's a way. She had heard that a lot growing up. What had Sam and Dean heard growing up? What hadn't they heard?

She imagined them being driven to state after state, seeing guns and hearing cries of monsters from an early age. Never had she equated those sights nor those sounds to her life. She was out as soon as she could manage- with John. Her sons were supposed to have lived blissfully peaceful lives while she and John went fishing at an old cottage or fed birds in a quiet park as time went by. She hadn't known what the demon wanted while John lay dying in her arms. She hadn't cared. The perfect life was slipping away from her before it had even truly begun. And despite everything, despite kissing her _father_ to complete the deal, she had still lost that perfect life. The tea stood still in the cup.

Perhaps she should drink the tea, even if it’d gotten cold. Sam had made it and he'd find it in the morning, untouched. Dean already seemed hesitant, expectant, of her. They both wanted something and she didn't know what to give. She didn't know if she _wanted_ to give it. After all, none of them knew each other. The Sam and Dean she had been raising are dead. In their place are men older than her, taller than her with callused hands made for holding shotguns. They'd only grown up with idealistic stories of her. Even if they wanted the same things as her- a quiet family life, with John… John is dead. The boys hunt. Sam hardly took pause when he dismissed the idea of leaving the hunting life. Hunting _was_ both of their lives. It couldn't be her's.

All of the lying, the pain, the horrors of hunting was something she didn't think she could take again. She enjoyed helping people, and she knew hunters were always in demand, but to do it for years on end, in and out….

Maybe she could give it a try. Just one hunt. She could prove that Sam and Dean were more like family than strangers if she could hunt just as well as them. John's journal was eyeing her like it wanted something from her, too. If John could hunt, she could hunt. _John, hunt_ . Even John had been at it for longer than her. How was that possible? How could John _hunt_? When Mary looked through the journal it was her husband's writing, but it wasn't her husband. Her husband was a soft-spoken man, a family man, an honest man. He was the exact opposite of a hunter. How much did he change, when he began ripping the heads off of vampires and burning dead bodies?

John had certainly morphed her sons into men she doubted she would ever really know. The number of beer cases Dean had around the bunker was out of control. Neither of them had a stable job or relationship, and apparently hadn't had one to speak of for years. They were guys her father would have steered her away from and in any other case, she probably never would have trusted someone like Dean. She knew the types. But her sons didn't have a problem with it, because it'd become commonplace to them. Save the world, get drunk. Mary shook her head. She was sure they were good people. Dean ripped through his pies and Sam shyly made her tea. But they weren't her sons. Mary's sons are dead. Maybe, now, she had to die with them.

**OOOOO**

Mary sat in the passenger seat, watching Dean grab snacks in the convenience store and Sam fill up the Impala. It was almost like having two Johns with her, except they were all hunting. She knew Dean was happy to be on a hunt with her- it was probably his official way of bonding. Sam seemed to want to avoid doing it, but he wasn't trying very hard. And here she was wondering whether they should have come along or not, with all the new tech and computers they use on a whim. Dean kept asking if he should find her some other type of EMF reader or have her practice firing a gun. The EMF was analog, and the gun… well, she didn't want to be using either way. The only thing she really wanted Dean to do was take the vehicle that kept reminding her of John and go back to the bunker with Sam.

But when he returned to the car with three types of beef jerky and looked at her with eyes that were secretly pleading, she couldn't refuse him. His chilli-lime flavour was actually pretty good. She and Dean were more alike than she cared to admit, in truth. But if they were alike in some ways, they could be alike in others, and that scared her. Did she really want to be a hunter again? Why was she going on this hunt? Why was Dean so happy to be hunting again when they had just faced down God's _sister_?

Sam opened up one of the back doors and hopped in. He looked nervous, maybe a happy nervous, to be on the road again so soon. Mary found him hard to read. She was certain that, beyond the trace of emotions she could detect, there was probably an array of thoughts he was accustomed to hiding. She looked back to Dean's contented grin as he pulled the car into drive, and she knew they both hid a lot under plaid and sly remarks.

**OOOOO**

Mary looked at the mark on her arm. It didn't hurt much physically, but for some reason it seemed to be resurfacing certain memories. The boy's spirit whom she'd seen in the house seemed scared and alone, and though he'd marked her, it didn't appear like he wanted to do her harm. Sam and Dean were jumping to conclusions, she was sure of it. "Alright," she declared while tugging on her boots, "Are you ready to go?"

Both of them looked at her weirdly. "What do you mean, Mom?" Dean asked. "We have food in the fridge."

Mary felt herself returning the look. "We still have to interview the neighbours…"

Sam shook his head softly. "I- uh… I've already found police reports from 2004… '91, '89, '85, '78. All deaths. All kids. Looks like it started with this girl here- Elizabeth Moriarty."

Mary felt a weight in her chest. They didn't even make calls anymore? "You know all that from…" she motioned to the laptop.

"Yeah," Sam whispered. "I can show you how to do it, Mom, easily," he promised as he watched her sit on the nearest bed. Dean stood next to her and slowly put a hand on her shoulder. Mary shook her head. You didn't even know who you were helping at that point. You did everything like robots. How could anyone stand this? To find something on a computer, check out creepy areas, and shoot a mindless monster or burn a wretched-smelling pile of bones? It seemed so repetitively awful.

"I'm going to go… get some hot food. And drinks. I'll be back." Mary shrugged on her jacket awkwardly and caught the keys Dean threw to her with shaking hands. She wasn't sure why this revelation shocked her so much. Of course the world would have changed like this with all the new technology. Dean and Sam must have grown up with fancy little phones that could do… well, more than call, apparently. The world was probably closer to Star Trek now than what she had known.

* * *

"Mylings?" Dean asked as he unwrapped the burger.

"Vengeful children's spirits. From, uh, Scandinavian folklore. It says here that 'their cries help lure adults to their death'."

"Huh." Dean bit into his burger, letting chunks of meat and lettuce fly as he spoke. "If they're spirits, I say we burn 'em."

Mary leaned away from him a bit and took a tentative bite.

"We have all the names here." Her younger son stood. "Might as well burn them all to be sure, right?"

As a mother, she felt compelled to sit him back down and make him eat something today, but Mary looked up, and up, and up at Sam, and decided to disagree on something else. "I don't think the little boy wanted to hurt me. He was scared. He wanted my help."

Sam gave her a look. "Sometimes it seems like that." As if that had changed her mind, he went to the door and waited for Dean to swallow the other half of his greasy mess.

"Are you coming, Mom?" Dean asked. But it hadn't really sounded like a question.

She just shook her head once more. "I… should finish this." She held up her food and gave them both a soft smile. Dean handed her a phone from one of his many pockets, saying something about calling them. Then they were gone.

She had to make some calls. She had to be sure. Mary held the "Smartphone" up to view and said, "Turn on." When nothing happened, the phone connected by wall began to look especially appealing. She dialed a few times before she'd found someone willing to dig through their files for her. Apparently people were too busy nowadays to look through their old information when she could "go online". But the main fact was that someone _did_ help her eventually, and she found herself speaking to the most recent tenant before she had really gotten herself into the mood.

"Hello?" The woman sounded to be in her late forties, probably born in the Midwest.

"Hi. I was interested in the history of a home you used to live in…" She took a breath. This might be a long night.

**OOOOO**

Finally, Mary could hear Cheryl wiping her tears again- hopefully for good. "Sorry for going on like that. It gets awful lonesome around here like you wouldn't believe."

"I know how you feel," Mary said in truth, as her head spun around everything she'd been able to make out- which wasn't much. Losing a son must have been awful. She looked towards the door of the motel room and wondered if she could relate. They weren't _dead_ , were they? Just drastically different. Unrecognizable.

"Lucas had just made an enemy with the dog next door, too. I guess the neighbourhood didn't like us much." There was a sad chuckle on the other end. "Well, you must be busy. I used to have a freelance job of my own when Lucas was young. It took up so much time I think I had him in daycare every other day. Sad, isn't it?"

Mary smiled a little. Hunting had actually managed to bring her closer to Sam and Dean than she wanted. "Yes, it's definitely taxing. Thanks for your time, Cheryl."

"Oh, thank _you_. I'm sure you'd make a good Facebook friend-"

"Sorry, I don't know what that is." It sounded strangely ominous. "But I'll put this to good use. Bye." The phone was firmly clicked into place before Cheryl could go on any longer about Corgis.

Lucas was definitely the boy she'd seen in the haunted house. He was a victim, and she knew it now. Mary snagged up her jacket, hurrying out the door before she considered the implications.

The boys returned to an empty room.

"Mom?" Dean called. There was no note, and the phone she was supposed to have used was still on the table. As Sam checked the call history, he swept the area for signs of a struggle. Nothing turned up in either search.

"You don't think she went to the house, do you?" Sam asked.

**OOOOO**

Dean was the one to smash his right foot into the front door, sending a cheap latch-lock flying. He stepped into the thick darkness with a flashlight in his left hand and a pistol in his right, crossing his hands over each other like he wanted to be a cop. Sam, meanwhile, echoed his older brother's movements as he tried to figure out why the hell their mom would bail like that without telling them. They hadn't even been able to call her, since she'd left the phone untouched. "Mom?" they both asked the shadows as they stepped in farther.

Then they saw her near the stairs, where the door had been forced open. She was standing weirdly at the top of them. "Dean, she has ectoplasm on her."

A young girl, maybe ten years old, materialized beside Mary. The small brunette was sporting a grin as she stared at the three intruders. "He hurt us," she said. Mary took a step forward, then another. "He used to hurt us real bad."

The slime picked up speed as it slithered down their mother's face like tears. Dean knew she must have come from the lower level, but had only taken a single step in that direction before Mary was lunging at him with a strained shriek. He tried to grab her arms- if only to prevent the whirlwind of clawing- but she was a possessed mess. He just had to buy Sam, who was already going down the stairs two at a time, a few moments to figure out how there were still spirits around. His mom had already backed him up against a wall.

Sam stopped at the bottom of the staircase when the original boy Mary had seen appeared. "We can't leave. He lets us stay here and play forever." The younger brother heard the sound of a pot smashing on the main level and let his crowbar swing into the ghost of the child. He then threw down his bag and flicked the flashlight about, spinning around the room so fast he could barely register what he saw. He couldn't waste any time.

Finally, Sam noticed a hole in the wall that had been shoddily boarded up. Just as the accelerant and disposable lighter were drawn out, he felt the presence of a spirit behind him. It was another little boy, and his grin was the same as the other two kids’. But before much could be said or done, there was another child. And another. And another.

"Sam!" Dean was shouting from upstairs.

He just backed away. The closer he got to the boarded-up section of the wall, the more kids there were. And there were a lot. Sam noticed he'd unconsciously screwed off the lip of the accelerant bottle and spun around to pour it through the boards, where there was a faint odour. The first flicker of the lighter died out. The second one-

" _Sam_!"

Just as he managed to keep the flame on, Mary grabbed his arm and tugged with surprising strength. Dean saw his brother thrown to the ground. The lighter dropped, but not before it burned Mary a little. Her crying out gave Dean a chance to wrap a chain around her chest and arms, slowly trying to drag her away from where Sam was getting back up. Then, the lighter was falling again, the children's ghosts were in flames, and the spirit of an older man was finally nothing but ashes going up to heaven.

Sam breathed in the musty air. His muscles rippled while he picked up the old bag of tools as if nothing had ever gone wrong, sliding it onto his shoulder like he was going to work a normal job. Mary collapsed on the floor and watched as Dean softly unravelled the chain from her. They were clearly worn out, but neither of them seemed very perturbed by the events. She took Dean's hand and rose with reverence.

While they left the house, the brothers demanded questions such as, “Why didn’t you bring your phone?” or “Why didn’t you wait for us?”. Mary couldn’t help but think that perhaps she _had_ acted rashly. It may have been that she’d thought she was more capable than them, and didn’t need backup of any sort. Or, she might’ve considered herself smarter, and able to read situations better. But the children had tricked her. If it hadn’t been for Sam and Dean’s quick work they could have all found themselves screwed.

Maybe ghosts weren't really her thing.

* * *

Mary looked up at the ceiling of the motel room, thinking that this could be a break in her track record of failures so far. It was robotic, and it was standardized, just as she had thought Sam and Dean's hunting methods were. But this gave her something to do. Everything was clear- nobody asked questions. You did what they told you because they were right, and that's the end of it. It was easy.

What hadn't been easy was finding out that the children's spirits had been corrupted. That the boy was _ready_ to hurt her and was using the scar he'd left to lure her back. It also hadn't been easy when she went to Asa's funeral, only to be faced with a demon that was in the house. She didn't know who to trust. She hadn't been sure what she was supposed to do. And the exorcism? Mary had never done an exorcism in her life. It was almost like being in a dream as she faced a _demon_ and sent it back to hell. Never had she pictured herself doing that, and then she overheard her sons complaining that they should have handled it easily. That they had taken on numerous hordes of demons. That they could _kill_ demons. How that was possible, she had no idea.

The Men of Letters could now do it, too. In fact, they could kill 'all but five things in existence'. They had the Colt. The legendary gun, polished and perfectly refined for use! Wally was dead, and the angel Castiel had almost joined him, but now they could kill demons too. With all of their technology, they could do so much, so easily. It meant she had to think about the hunt even less now. She'd felt a pang of guilt as Castiel lay dying in the barn, but it was alright. He's fine now.

_"There's no easy way to say it, so I'm just gonna say it. I have sort of… been working with the British Men of Letters."_

She could still remember the look Dean gave her, as clear as the glasses Ketch was drinking from beside her. Sam had fumbled his words, trying to understand those two simple sentences. But Dean had looked at her- into her- no, through her. He'd known exactly what she meant, and exactly what she had been doing. It was as if her father was trying to approach the situation of her being in love with John, and strived to talk her out of it. She thought she was going to get an earful, and had already steeled herself to leave with the door slamming shut. But he kept watching her; so maybe he wasn't going to say anything. And then he summarized it. "Ah."

Dean didn't need to know any more, to hear any more. He was familiar with the situation and she didn't know whether she wanted to hate him or cry on his shoulder.

"Mom… we, um… we have a-a history with them," Sam said. Deep in his eyes, she could see a knowing look as well. Sam was just the type to gloss over it and do repair work. She didn't _want_ to do repair work. She just wanted to hunt and laugh with her boys over a drink. She hadn't returned to the bunker to try and work out her feelings; she doubted they could ever be successfully untangled.

"I know, Sam. And it was a hard decision. But they're doing good work." God, why did she feel the need to explain it all? Dean kept eyeing her, waiting for her to finish with the excuses. "I have helped them save people, a lot of people." She kept her focus on Sam. He was the one who wanted to hear what she had to say, who wanted to understand it in full. "We can learn from them."

There, she was done. She'd blurted out what she could without rambling on and on. When she finally drew her gaze back to the eldest among them, she saw the anger boiling up. The pursed lips. The relaxed eyebrows. The slightly-squinted eyes. "Don't give me the face," she tried to order him. Mary thought she sounded more like a pleading girl.

"What face?" Dean asked.

"You know the face."

"There's no face."

" _That's_ the face."

He finally looked away from her. It was almost like a weight lifting off of her back for about three seconds while the brothers tried to find better things to say. Sam came up with something about his torture and distrust. She understood it, but it didn't mean she had to agree with it. The men who used to be her sons could be at fault, too.

"So where does that leave us?" she heard Dean ask.

"Same as always," she offered. At least, she hoped. "Family." Mary really did want to have some kind of relationship with them, but she wasn't sure how to start going about it. She thought she might have figured it out by now, by being completely honest about her loyalties. With the way Sam and Dean looked at each other, that had gone over _real_ well.

Maybe Ketch was right. Maybe she _was_ too weak around her sons.

She looked to the other side of the bed, where Ketch was putting his phone down in favour of whatever it was he chose to drink this time. Though offered them numerous times, she had to decline the drinks. John never drank, and she'd dropped the habit after spending time around him. Tonight had taught her to stick to the cheap beers like she always had. Her "partner" put the amber liquid to his lips and glanced over. She thought about how Sam had come to the British Men of Letters HQ recently to join without fully admitting to it. The thought was enough to push her out of bed and get dressed, while Ketch agreed that all of this meant nothing.

"... And I notice you took my advice."

"Advice?"

"You had a choice to make… your work, or family ties."

Mary shoved her bag back to the floor. Did it really have to be like that? Why was everyone so hell-bent on having her choose between the two? Dean and Sam were reluctant to have anything to do with her once she "chose the Men of Letters". She hadn't _chosen_ anything! And now Ketch was patting himself on the back for having brought her over to their side. She wasn't on anyone's side. If her sons would only talk to her, she was sure she could hunt and still return to the bunker with bacon cheeseburgers in hand. There was nothing to talk about with either party. She was doing her job as a member of the British Men of Letters, and she wanted to enjoy the family she still had yet to get to know.

* * *

How could she not figure it out? Was it MEANT to be this hard? What if he hadn't been getting her messages this entire time? Was that why he never got back to her? Was she texting someone random?

These new phones still didn't make much sense to her. It worked fine otherwise, but she didn't think Dean would give her the silent treatment like this. Should she be doing something? Should she have worded things differently while she had the chance?

The next thing Mary knew, she was shoving open the old door to their bunker. A conversation in the library was tapering off as she came downstairs. There were pieces of some shattered item on a towel in front of Sam, with Dean standing to lean over it. Her attempts to make out what it could have been were in vain beyond the tears. Everything was blurring together and she forgot about the little stupid step from the main area into the library. It caught the tip of her right foot. She was too tired from multiple straight hours of driving to regain her balance. Her hands hit the wood floor as hard as her tears, and it was all she could do to watch them pool together and mix with her makeup.

Sam, of course, was there. Dean was closer than she had expected him to get. She couldn't see them, and could hardly hear them beyond the flood of thoughts and worries she had mostly kept at bay- until now. She didn't deserve to be here. She didn't deserve to feel their hands on her back and hear their supportive tones. Dean, at least, must have recognized that. Yet she shows up out of the blue and he ends his weeks of silence to ask if she's alright.

She had ruined their lives. She'd gotten greedy as she watched the life drain out of John's eyes, and she had given up everyone's perfect life for her own. Every second she was able to avoid being a mother to the boys reminded her of every moment Dean had needed to be a mother for his little brother. A father for his little brother. A wife for his dad, a coach for himself. John's journal was filled with the scribbles of a determined man, and those men didn't have time for their children. They hardly had time to wipe the blood from their face before they were drowning themselves in that of another monster. She was doing the same thing now because they didn't _need_ her. They had made do without her for more than thirty years, longer than she had been alive. She didn't need them, and they didn't need her. She didn't need them. She _didn't_ need them.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. Perhaps she wasn't heard above their questions and their concerns and everything in between, but it didn't matter. She _didn't_ need their approval. "I'm so sorry."

Her neck straightened upwards, letting her come face to face with these two men she didn't know, and who didn't know her. "To both of you."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked. Past her matted hair she could see the worried expression and the disquiet written all over it. That answer, she didn't know. Her gaze slid to Dean.

He didn't have anything to say. He just looked her up and down, wordlessly trying to understand what she was going through. Why the hell wouldn't he just say something?

"You should be able to approach me for answers," she told them. It was coming from somewhere and she didn't know where. She'd been given one shot, and whether this was from the heart or something she had heard in a movie growing up, her word-spewage couldn't be stopped. "But I have more questions than I can find answers for. I've gone to you for answers, and… and neither of you can give them. I shouldn't have expected you to. But the British Men of Letters can't either, and…"

Dean had given her a shoulder to lean into while she spoke, and she was happy to do it. She could close her eyes and pretend John was comforting her after a movie.

"If there's something you need to know, Mom, we'll do our best," Sam said.

She shook her head. "I just- I would have liked to be your mother. But I can't be. And I want to, but I just can't. I've made so many mistakes, and-"

Dean pulled her back so he could look at her properly, away from the facade she would rather live in. "I've made my own mistakes. Maybe I made one by thinking I wanted a mom..." he traded a glance with his brother. "Honestly, I think we just wanted to be some kind of family. To start over."

She laughed a little. It came out partly choked and she sniffed as she wiped at the running mascara, which might have gotten on Dean. She couldn't be sure because he hadn't reacted either way. "I… I never meant to leave. I wanted to hunt _and_ be… be a…"

Sam nodded. "Both of us have tried the double life. Unless they're hunting with you…"

"Even Cas has to leave sometimes," Dean cut in. Mary couldn't help but notice that they were the ones giving her the advice, yet again. "We know how it works. And if you never reconvene, well." He huffed at the thought of Garth. At least it hadn't ended up too bad for him.

"No. I want to be with you two, above all else. If I can't be a mother, I can be family, like you said. Start over." She looked up as if asking for confirmation. Approval.

They both gave her a nod.


End file.
